The Lost Stories (41 page)

“And you are . . . ?” He was puzzled by the Ranger's companion. He seemed to be equipped as a King's Ranger, with a longbow and two knives on his belt. Yet there were small differences. His cloak was dark green, all one shade. It wasn't mottled green and gray like the Ranger's cloak. And the knives were in two separate scabbards, pushed close together.

“My name is Halt.” The Hibernian accent was unmistakable.

Morgarath raised his eyebrows. “Just Halt? No second name? Were your parents too poor to afford one? Or do you not know who they were?”

Halt regarded the man without reacting to the implied insult in his words. “My apologies. My full name is Halt . . . Arratay.” On the spur of the moment, he came up with the pseudonym that he would use for the rest of his life. He smiled inwardly at the mockery inherent in the name—mockery that Morgarath failed to recognize. “Arratay” was Halt's pronunciation of the Gallic word
arretez,
which meant “Halt.” In other words, he had just told the sneering nobleman that his name was Halt Halt.

“I'm a forester from the court of Lord Dennis O'Mara, Duke of Droghela County, in the Kingdom of Clon—”

He got no further as Morgarath held up a dismissive hand. “I asked for your name, Hibernian. Not your life story.” Halt bowed slightly, a mere inclination of the head. Morgarath turned his attention back to Crowley. “Now what's this all about, Ranger? I believe you have arrested three of my men?”

“That's right, sir. They were drunk and causing a disturbance in a tavern, terrorizing the innkeeper and his serving girl.”

“Terrorizing them?” Morgarath said, his eyebrows rising. “Threatening their lives? Slicing off parts of their bodies with sharp knives? Torturing them with red-hot pokers?”

Crowley shifted uncomfortably. “Perhaps
terrorizing
is too strong a word for it, sir . . . my lord. Intimidating them might be a better way of putting it. They were bullying them and causing a disturbance. The girl was frightened, sir.”

“It sounds like nothing more than high spirits to me, Ranger.”

“You could look at it that way, my lord. But when I told them to stop, one of them threatened me with a knife. They tied my hands and he threatened to cut off my nose.”

“After you struck him, I believe.”

“I hit him, yes. But only in retaliation. He was roughing up the girl and I pulled him away. He swung a punch at me. I ducked and hit him. Then his companions grabbed me and he drew a dagger, then threatened to cut off my nose.”

“So how did you escape this terrible peril? What persuaded him to stop?”

“I shot him,” Halt said, interrupting. Morgarath's sneering was beginning to annoy him. The Baron now turned his mocking, wide-eyed gaze back to Halt.

“You shot him? Where did you shoot him?”

“In the tavern,” Halt said, keeping his face completely straight. The sally cut through Morgarath's affected air of bored disdain and Halt saw a sudden flare of anger behind those black eyes. The man was obviously toying with them. Halt was sure that, while they had been kept waiting, he had already sought a full report of the events in the inn.

“I meant,” Morgarath said, with icy precision, “whereabouts on his body did you shoot him?”

“My apologies. I shot him through the leg. He said you'd be angry at me if I killed him.”

Morgarath locked eyes with the Hibernian for several seconds. Halt's calm eyes met his gaze without wavering. Eventually, it was Morgarath who looked away, feigning a lack of interest.

“Then it was as well you didn't kill him,” he said.

“I thought so, my lord.”

“Still, even a leg wound seems a severe punishment for simply annoying an innkeeper and a serving girl.”

Crowley cleared his throat and interrupted. “Excuse me, my lord. The men's treatment of the innkeeper and his girl was insufferable. But the fact that they laid hands on and threatened a King's officer is a far more serious matter.”

“They offended your dignity, did they, Ranger?” Morgarath sneered.

Crowley shook his head. “It's not a personal matter with me, sir. They showed disrespect to the uniform and the Corps and they threatened a superior officer.”

“And you expect me to punish them, is that it?”

Crowley shrugged.“I thought it best to report the matter to you for action, sir. They're your men, after all, so it's better to deal with it unofficially, as it were. Otherwise I'd have to report it to Ranger headquarters.”

Morgarath's brows lowered. That was the problem, of course. He had no idea how this Crowley was regarded by his superiors. The idiots who ran the Ranger Corps these days were an arrogant bunch. Even though they were technically aligned with Morgarath and the other members of the Royal Council, they tended to stand on their dignity if their pride was offended. If they felt their organization had been treated with disrespect, they could demand all sorts of retribution. And ineffectual as they might be as fighting men, they had a lot of influence. They belonged to some of the more important families in the Kingdom and Morgarath wasn't yet in a strong enough position to alienate them. He forced a smile.

“I appreciate your discretion, Ranger Crowley. As you say, it's better to keep these matters among ourselves. I'll have them flogged.”

Crowley was startled by the words. “No need for that, sir! I think demotion and a few months of unpleasant duties would be enough.”

“You're too softhearted, Ranger. I think a flogging is merited. Fifty lashes at least. After all, they offended the Ranger Corps, and we can't have that. What do you think, Halt Arratay?”

Halt had to force himself not to smile at Morgarath's unwitting use of the ridiculous repetitive name. He sensed that the Baron, by proposing such a cruel punishment, was attempting to keep Crowley off balance and to undermine his resolve. He was playing a sadistic mind game. Crowley was a decent man and the thought that he had caused three men to have their flesh torn from their backs would sicken him. Halt, however, felt no such qualms.

“Flog them by all means, my lord. A good flogging never hurt anyone—certainly not the flogger, anyway.”

Crowley glanced quickly at him. Halt gave him an almost imperceptible nod. Crowley wasn't sure what Halt was doing, but elected to follow his lead. “As you see fit, my lord,” he said.

Morgarath considered the two men before him in silence for some time. Then he stroked his chin slowly.

“Quite so. As I see fit. Very well. You can rest assured that I will see to their punishment—and it will be appropriate to the crime they committed. That's all. Get out of here.”

He made a shooing gesture with one languid hand and turned his gaze from them, picking up the dagger and examining the design work on its hilt once more. Halt and Crowley turned and walked quickly away. For a moment, Crowley was inclined to back away from the dais, then he took his lead from Halt and turned smartly, putting his back to the tall black-clad figure on the throne. As they walked away in step, Morgarath abandoned his feigned interest in the dagger and stared after them, his gaze unblinking. The Ranger was predictable, he thought—one of the last of a rapidly disappearing kind. He was of little interest to Morgarath.

The Hibernian was a different matter. He was bold, resourceful and difficult to cow. Surrounded by yes-men and toadies as he was, Morgarath had need of a few strong-willed lieutenants. The Hibernian could be a useful person to have on his side.

Crowley and Halt spent the night at Castle Gorlan, eating in the main hall with the castle senior staff and knights from the Battleschool. For the most part, the locals ignored them. Morgarath chose to eat in his own quarters and made no appearance.

They were assigned comfortable guest chambers in one of the towers. The rooms were big, airy and well furnished. After he had blown out his candle, Halt lay, eyes open, thinking over events of the day. Long after midnight, he heard a light rap at the door. He slipped out of bed. His belt with the two scabbards was looped over the headboard beside his pillow. He drew the saxe knife and moved quietly to the door. Opening it, he found a castle servant, who recoiled in fear as his candle's light reflected on the heavy blade in the Hibernian's hand.

“Lord Morgarath wishes to speak to you,” the servant said nervously.

“Wait here,” Halt told him. He dressed hurriedly, debated whether to leave his knives behind, then shrugged and buckled on the heavy leather belt, replacing the saxe in its scabbard. He followed the servant downstairs to a lower level. They crossed to another staircase, this one leading to the central tower, and the man led him upward again. After four flights, they came to Morgarath's private quarters. The servant knocked apprehensively on the massive door. Faintly, they heard Morgarath's voice.

“Come in.”

They entered. The Baron was sitting behind a massive desk, leafing through sheaves of parchment. One solitary candle lit the room. Shadows pressed in around the black-clad form and Halt stopped in front of the desk. Morgarath glanced at the servant.

“Get out,” he said, and the man scuttled away. Halt was put in mind of a cockroach hurrying for cover when a light was shone upon it. He heard the door close behind the man. Morgarath had kept his gaze fixed on Halt while the servant left. Halt returned the scrutiny.

The Baron waved him to a chair.

“Sit down,” he said, and as Halt complied, Morgarath leaned forward on his elbows, pushing the candle closer to the Hibernian so he could see his face more clearly.

“You interest me, Halt,” he said finally.

Halt shrugged. “I'm not a very interesting person, my lord,” he said evenly, but Morgarath shook his head.

“Oh, but you are. You're a man who knows his own mind, and who's not afraid to speak it. I value that. You're resourceful and, from what I've heard, you're a skilled fighter.”

Halt said nothing. The silence between them grew. Finally, Morgarath broke it.

“I could use a man like you.”

A faint smile touched the corners of Halt's mouth.“I'm not sure I like the idea of being used, my lord.”

Morgarath waved the statement aside.“A figure of speech. Let me put it another way. I'd like to have you working for me. I pay well, and as you can see, conditions here at Gorlan are extremely pleasant. A lot of men would be honored to work for me.”

“Regretfully, sir, I don't think I'm worthy of that honor.” There was no trace of regret in Halt's voice.

“I find that those who aren't for me are usually against me, Halt,” Morgarath said. Halt recognized the warning implicit in the words, but he was unmoved. He remained silent, meeting Morgarath's basilisk stare without any sign of wavering or uncertainty.

Morgarath tried one last time.“I'd rather have you as an ally than as an enemy,” he said.

Halt stood abruptly, pushing the chair back with a scrape of wood on wood.

“That choice may not be yours,” he said. And before the furious Baron could respond, Halt turned on his heel and left the room.

CROWLEY AND HALT LEFT THE CASTLE THE FOLLOWING MORNING. Halt made no mention of his late-night meeting with Morgarath and they rode in silence for several minutes. Finally, inevitably, it was Crowley who spoke first.

“I wonder what he'll do to them?”

Halt glanced sidelong at him.“Who'll do to who?” he said, ignoring strict grammar. Halt was never a stickler for rules of any kind.

“Morgarath. I wonder how he'll punish those three men-at-arms we brought in.”

Halt's lip curled in disdain. “I doubt he'll do anything to them. I suspect they were throwing their weight around with his full approval.”

Crowley frowned at the statement. “Why would he encourage them to do that?”

“He's a tyrant. Tyrants like their subjects to live in fear. Helps keep them in line.”

Crowley nodded sadly. “I suppose you're right.” He sighed deeply and Halt looked at him again.

“What's the trouble? You're normally such a cheery fellow.”

Crowley allowed himself a faint grin at that description, coming as it did from the grim, unsmiling figure riding beside him.

“I was just thinking what a terrible state the Kingdom is in,” he said. “Men like Morgarath treating their own subjects so badly, the Royal Council doing their best to undermine the King, and the Ranger Corps nothing more than a group of vain, indolent loafers. I wonder where it will all end?”

“You're a Ranger, and you're not vain,” Halt pointed out. “You may be indolent, of course. I can't be sure about that. And you said there were others like you.” He was obviously trying to cajole Crowley out of his gloomy mood. But the Ranger shook his head and made a hopeless little gesture.

“Only a few,” he said. “A dozen at most. And we're widely scattered. The Corps Commandant sees to that. They'll get rid of us one by one, with trumped-up charges and accusations—just as they did with Pritchard and the others.”

“Why not get in first?” Halt said. “Get the others together and fight back. From what you say about the current commanders, they wouldn't put up much of a fight.”

“I think that's what Morgarath is hoping we'll do,” Crowley said. “He'd like to see the last traces of the old Ranger Corps totally destroyed. If we rebelled against our own leadership, technically we'd be rebelling against the King.”

“It's a problem,” Halt said thoughtfully. “Band together and they accuse you of treason, stay separate and they can pick you off one at a time.”